Welcome to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black
by unspeakable3
Summary: A selection of ficlets and drabbles exploring Regulus Arcturus Black's childhood and his relationships with the other members of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black (among others). Inspired by r/FanFiction's writing prompts; may be expanded upon at some point. (mostly) canon-compliant.
1. Sour

The owl came at breakfast.

Orion lowered his newspaper and Regulus made sure he was sitting up straight in case his father happened to look over. He made sure not to swing his legs, too, even though his feet didn't yet touch the floor because mother didn't like that. And he made sure to bite his toast ever so delicately so he wouldn't spill crumbs everywhere and set them both to shouting at Kreacher.

But all that didn't matter, because the owl came.

His father read the letter first. Regulus watched him out of the corner of his eye. Orion's face remained as unreadable as ever as he eventually passed the thick parchment to his wife.

Walburga's face wasn't unreadable. Walburga's eyes were _bulging_.

She screamed and screeched and ranted and raved and he couldn't understand her because she was just so loud but Regulus shrunk back in his high-backed chair, hoping that if he looked small and helpless enough she wouldn't decide to turn and direct her anger on him instead.

"Walburga," his father said in that commanding, imperious tone that meant _stop that right now or Salazar help you_. And his mother stood, eyes blazing. Regulus caught a glimpse of the letter before Walburga swept her hand across the table, sending the letter and its envelope and the remains of their breakfast onto the floor. The words _Sirius _and _Gryffindor _leapt out at him, looking so incongruous next to each other.

_Oh brother mine_, he thought despondently, _what have you done?_

Kreacher placed a fresh goblet of pumpkin juice at Regulus's right hand, and his father commanded him to drink. He obeyed, even though the sweet liquid turned sour in his mouth. How could he even begin to fix this?


	2. Serpent

Regulus lifted the Hat from his head with shaking hands and placed it on the stool behind him, stepping off the podium to make way for _Davies, Bridget! _The Slytherin table felt very far away.

He looked across the Hall at the table draped in red and gold, searching for his brother. Sirius was concentrating very hard on staring at his empty plate. Regulus could see his white knuckles, his fists tightly clenched on the tabletop. His knee was probably jerking up and down under the table the way it always did when he was annoyed or anxious and trying not to lash out. Sirius always seemed to be trying not to lash out these days. A boy with dark hair and glasses was whispering something to him, while another boy sitting across from him filled a goblet with water and pushed it towards him. His brother's friends, no doubt.

Regulus sighed. He hoped Sirius would understand.

He had done it for him. If Regulus was a serpent then maybe mother wouldn't mind so much that Sirius was a lion. Maybe she wouldn't get so angry and maybe she wouldn't shout and maybe she'd stop throwing things. If he did everything that she wanted, then maybe she would leave his brother alone.

With a deep breath, he tore his eyes from the Gryffindor table and looked to the Slytherins. Cissy's long white-blonde hair stood out immediately. She was beckoning him to her, smiling indulgently, and he forced his feet to carry him forwards though it felt like his was wading through sludge.

She'd made a space for him beside her on the bench, and despite thinking that he was probably supposed to sit at the end of the table and wait for the other first years he clambered in beside her anyway.

"Well done, Reggie!" she whispered over the applause as the Davies girl was sent to Hufflepuff. "We're all so proud of you! You must write to your mother as soon as you get to your dorm. She'll be delighted!"

And she kissed him on the side of his head and he probably should have pushed her away or looked disgruntled at her babying him in front of his new housemates but it felt nice, and comforting, and almost like someone was looking out for him.


	3. Fire

"_Ardeo innoxium_," she whispered, and a ball of bright blue fire appeared in her hand. Regulus, embarrassingly, flinched.

"Don't worry, they're completely safe to touch! Remus Lupin showed me the charm last week when we were patrolling together. I do hope he's not terribly ill," she said with a sigh that verged too closely to wistful for his liking. "I'm glad that you're his replacement though, Reggie."

She offered the flames to him but he shook his head and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. It was cold in the draughty old castle, but not cold enough to accept something that came from Remus bloody Lupin. He might have fancy charms up his threadbare sleeves but he still ended up in the hospital wing more frequently than the Hufflepuff Beaters. And he called himself a _wizard_. No self-respecting wizard should get ill that often.

There was this odd, burning sensation inside his ribcage that seemed to intensify at the thought of Lupin being close enough to Clementine to teach her anything. At the thought of Clementine being concerned about Lupin's wellbeing. He glanced at her; she was holding the bluebell flames up to her face, basking in their warmth. The flames' reflection in her bright sparkling eyes made them look even more extraordinarily blue. She really was quite pretty. She caught him looking at her and smiled that easy grin of hers, pearly white teeth gleaming in the firelight. Regulus looked away and strode ahead so she wouldn't catch the flush that was threatening to stain his cheeks a rather unbecoming shade of pink. Blacks don't _blush_.

Maybe this fire in his chest wasn't anything to do with Clementine. She was pretty, so what? Lots of girls were pretty. Lots of girls had pretty eyes and pretty smiles and lovely shiny hair.

It was probably because of Lupin. That idiot boy who was so close to _his _brother. Any mention of those prats who somehow, for some reason, seemed to find his brother _hilarious _managed to rile him up these days.

Yes, that would be it.

It definitely wasn't anything to do with Clementine.


	4. Growth

Sirius had always been bigger than him.

He was his big brother, obviously, and insisted on introducing him as _my little baby brother Reg _even to people they already knew. He would rest his elbow on Regulus's shoulder and muss up his hair and get things off shelves for him even though he could definitely reach and even if he couldn't, he could use magic couldn't he?

But he was bigger in other ways, too. Sirius was louder, livelier, more interesting. He had his gaggle of friends that hung onto his every words and crowds of girls that practically _drooled _over him. Disgusting.

Everyone knew when Sirius walked into a room. He waved his hands when he talked, forcing you to duck out of the way to avoid being smacked around the face. He delivered ridiculous speeches while standing on tables. He made outrageous swerves and dives on his broomstick and lapped up the applause.

He was just _big_.

"Come on boys, let's get you measured up."

"Aunt Cass, aren't we getting a bit old for that?" Sirius grumbled.

"Nonsense! You're fine, strapping young men and you're still growing and you _will_ be measured on my growth chart. Regulus, you first."

Regulus rose from his armchair and stood obligingly in front of the wall where all the Blacks had been measured up for the past three generations. Aunt Cass's quill flew up to mark a line at the top of his head.

"Two inches! My my, you'll be as tall as your father yet, Regulus," Cassiopeia beamed.

Regulus straightened his back, a little shot of pride bursting through his veins, and sat back down.

Sirius was called up next, rolling his eyes but walking with a swagger all the same. Regulus pretended to inspect the cuffs of his robes but was really keeping an eye on those height marks labelled _Sirius_. Frustratingly, they jumped up even higher than his had.

"Maybe next year, baby brother," Sirius winked, and clapped him on the shoulder.

Maybe next year.


	5. Brick

"What do you want, Reg?" Sirius sighed, eyes fixed to the ceiling.

Regulus shuffled inside the room and softly closed the door behind him. He fiddled nervously with the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, frowning and pulling at a loose thread as he wondered whether he would ever be able to muster up the courage to tell Sirius what he _really _wanted to say.

"I wish you wouldn't provoke them so," he said quietly.

Sirius groaned and sat up on his bed, running his fingers through his long tangled hair.

"Can't you just keep it all in or something until we go back to school? It's only a couple more weeks, and then it's not so long until you come of age and then you can leave nicely, _normally_, and everything will be alright."

"Keep it all in?" Sirius repeated, raising his voice. "_Keep it all in_? Are you as stupid as those morons you hang out with, Reg? How am I meant to _keep it all in _when mum's spouting off about fucking blood-traitors and mudbloods and scummy whelps or whatever bullshit terms she's spent the day thinking up. You know she's talking about your cousin, right? Your _family_?"

"Andromeda —"

"_Don't _say her name! Don't you _dare _say her name when you have done _nothing _to defend her!"

He was standing up now, walking towards Regulus, and then he was shaking his shoulders and shouting in his face and he was _just like mother _and Regulus felt his insides shrivel and all those clever words that he'd rehearsed saying just floated out of him like dust motes and he'd never be able to catch them again, he'd never be able to make Sirius just _stop _and _listen _he was hurtling along like a Gringott's cart and he was going to fall out and smash his head open on a rock and bleed out everywhere and it would be too late. It was already too late.


	6. Monster

He apparated straight back to Grimmauld Place and leaned against the front door, closing his eyes and willing himself to stop shaking, willing the bile rising in his throat to go back down, to stay down just long enough to get through this night.

Kreacher appeared, and took his cloak and mask without a sound. Regulus managed to nod his thanks. The elf knew where to put them; where to hide them.

Mother was in the drawing room, staring at the tapestry. Of course she was. Where else would she be these days? She turned as he entered and held her arms out to him, beaming a smile that he once would have longed to see. Now it just made him want to run from the room screaming.

He forced himself to walk calmly over to her, forced himself to watch as she pushed up his sleeve and squealed with delight at the terrible, angry mark that was now staining his skin. He listened with a polite smile as she expressed her delight and her pride at everything he had managed to accomplish. She told him her was her darling son. Her bright, shining boy. The bile threatened to rise again.

Mother rose from her chair and walked to the tapestry. Regulus followed, a pace behind. She pointed out the scorch marks on the tapestry, the blights on their noble family tree. She told him that he would continue their ancient traditions and bring honour to their ancestors. She told him that she always knew that he would continue their legacy with dignity.

_Toujours Pur_, he nodded, and excused himself.

Once Regulus reached the sanctuary of his bedroom he allowed himself to crumble. He collapsed onto his bed and reached out a shaking arm to retrieve the scarf that lay hidden under his pillow. His long fingers gripped the yellow and charcoal striped wool and brought it to his face, breathing in the light floral scent of her perfume that lingered there. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that she was there with him, warm hands running through his hair and telling him that everything would be okay, that she would love him no matter what he was forced to do.

He sat up suddenly and dragged himself to the end of the bed, retching.

He couldn't — he _wouldn't_ — she didn't deserve this. _He _didn't deserve _her_. She was lightness and goodness and hope and he was the opposite of that. He was a dementor, sucking the life from her. She couldn't know. He couldn't tell her that tonight he had stood before a monster and let it brand its mark on his skin.

_Toujours Pur _was a lie. He had never been pure.


	7. Pressure

Regulus was a cauldron about to bubble over. A thick, bulging Puffapod ready to explode. A particularly nasty boil ripe for the squeezing.

His hands were shaking and his legs were shaking and his stomach was tying itself in knots and his throat was constantly dry and scratchy and he wanted to be sick but there wasn't anything to sick up, not any more.

He hadn't been eating. He'd started cutting up his meals into tiny scraps and feeding them to the birds that liked to sit and sing on his windowsill because he couldn't bear to look in Kreacher's big, sad, beseeching eyes any more. He couldn't bear to be yet another disappointment.

The pressure was mounting on all sides, now. Sirius had gone. Mother had marched Regulus into the drawing room and made him watch as she blasted his brother from the tapestry, blasted him from their family and blasted him from his life entirely. She'd told him that under no circumstances was he to make contact with his brother, not even at school. He was to act as though his brother had never existed.

Regulus was the heir, now. Father had shown him the ring that he would inherit. The study and the desk and the books. The responsibility. It was down to Regulus, now, to uphold the Family's honour — and the way he'd said it made it sound like there was a capital F; _the _Family; there could be no other — to continue their pure, noble lineage.

Mother wanted him to go along with Bella to her _little meetings_. He knew what they were. There was nothing _little _about them. He'd heard enough talk about these so-called meetings in the common room to know exactly what they entailed: servitude to a madman. Why couldn't anybody _see _that? Why were they all so insistent that this unknown maniac who didn't even have a _last name _would be the one who would rescue their society? Would be the one to bring the Minister and Dumbledore to heel? What were they _thinking_?

He was struggling to picture a way out. This self-proclaimed Dark Lord had already seized half his family and half his friends. The whole of Slytherin House was abuzz with rumours of his plans for a better society, a better standing for purebloods. Avery had taken his Mark. Mulciber was to follow this summer, if that could be believed. They were _idiots_. They believed his rhetoric and thought nothing of the consequences of what they might have to _do _to achieve their ultimate goal.

Idiots, all of them.


	8. Lion

Regulus stormed into his bedroom and closed the door as loudly as he dared. He wanted to slam it but that was particularly unwise considering the state of mind his mother was in lately. Instead, he attempted to satisfy the rage that was burning inside his chest by kicking his school trunk and throwing a green cushion at the wall. He succeeded only in stubbing his toe and sending a few carefully-chosen photographs fluttering to the floor.

He loathed James Potter with a passion. And he hated his brother for wittering on about James bloody Potter all summer long. James Potter this, James Potter that — _he _had just finished his first year at Hogwarts, why couldn't they discuss that?

But _no_. All Sirius could talk about was how James Potter had made it onto the Quidditch team this year. How _amazing _James Potter was at flying — as if it was difficult to steer a Nimbus 1000 towards a goal post. Had Sirius forgotten how good he, Regulus, was at flying? Had he forgotten that remarkable dive he had made just last Easter? Regulus was determined to make Seeker for Slytherin in September. And he was even more determined to beat Gryffindor in every single match they played.

James Potter was amazing at Charms, according to Sirius. And Transfiguration and Defence. And apparently he excelled at getting Sirius's head stuck up his arse.

Regulus was good at Charms, too. Second in his year, only behind Clementine. He was scoring well in Transfiguration and Defence. He was excellent at Potions and Astronomy, obviously. But apparently Sirius didn't put much stock in Potions and Astronomy. He'd sneered when Regulus had brought up his own end-of-year exam results, though father had given him a small but approving nod.

James Potter was an arrogant arsehole with a head the size of a hippogriff's backside. He was squinty and stupid and Regulus didn't know _what _his brother saw in him. James Potter was loud and boisterous and just plain _ridiculous _with those irritating pranks that were definitely not funny _at all_. He was the epitome of a Gryffindor and Regulus _loathed _him.


	9. Ice

Regulus stood behind the enormous sculpture of the Black family crest wishing, as he did every year, that it weren't made of ice. It wasn't particularly easy to hide behind ice, but as this ridiculous sculpture was the biggest thing in the room it would have to do.

It was a pointless narcissistic statement that while the Lestranges, the Malfoys, the Rosiers and the Macmillans might be invited to these beautiful and extravagant Yule parties, they were only here because of _marriage_. The Blacks were the ones with the power. The Blacks were the _Most Noble and Ancient_; this was their birthright.

Regulus hated it.

And this year, to make things even worse, he didn't have his brother to cause a distraction and divert attention away from him. Sirius had left just a week before, leaving fury behind in his wake. Regulus had half-expected his mother to cancel this year's party and bury herself in the shame that her eldest son had brought on the family. Instead, she had spread the invitation to even _more _of their sprawling extended family in order to show off the new heir.

"It's a bit much sometimes."

Regulus looked up; he hadn't heard his uncle approaching. Alphard looked at him with those kind grey eyes and patted him on the shoulder.

"You miss your brother."

"I have no brother," Regulus replied automatically. That's what mother had insisted: that Sirius was gone and was to be forgotten. As though he had never existed at all.

"He will always be your brother, Regulus, no matter what that sister of mine tries to tell you."

He stared at Alphard, trying to gauge if he knew anything of Sirius's whereabouts or not. He had always been his brother's favourite uncle; always full of interesting stories about his travels abroad, never toeing the family line. Had Sirius gone to him, after he'd left? Was he at Alphard's right now?

His eyes flickered across the room and found his mother staring intently at him, beckoning him over with an urgent hand. No doubt she wanted to show him off to yet another distant cousin.

"You are mistaken, uncle. I have no brother," Regulus repeated, and gave Alphard a brief nod. He could have sworn he saw a flicker of disappointment cross the older man's face before he turned and resumed his position at his mother's side.


	10. Wither

"Touch it, I dare you," Sirius whispered.

"No! It's disgusting!" Regulus replied in horror, recoiling from the pale, withered _thing _that had apparently once been a human hand.

"Don't be a bore Reg, just do it."

"No! Stop — we'll get into trouble!"

He tried to squirm away as Sirius grabbed his wrist and drew his arm towards the Hand of Glory but the older boy was stronger, more determined than he was. Regulus glanced over to the shop counter, father was still engaged in conversation with old Mr Burke and hadn't noticed their scuffle but _still _they would get in _so much trouble_.

Sirius used Regulus's momentary distraction to yank on his arm and then he was _touching _it and it was _disgusting_. All gnarled lumps of skin and protruding bones and it was awful. So awful.

"D'you know how they make them?" Sirius whispered into his ear as he pressed Regulus's trembling fingers around the Hand. "They cut off the left hand from a thief's dead body. Then they pickle it in salt and pee and blood and leave it out for a week to dry. D'you reckon the dead man comes looking for his missing hand?"

"STOP IT!" Regulus yelled, wrenching his hand away from the disgusting object at last.

The shop fell silent and Regulus felt his father's eyes burning the back of his neck. He stared at the Hand because between that and Orion Black it was the less terrifying option.

"Regulus Arcturus Black," came his father's cold, commanding voice. "_What _is the meaning of this commotion? Did I not order you to remain still, and quiet, and to _not _disturb me?"

"It wasn't Reg's fault!" Sirius blurted out, stepping in front of Regulus as if he could become a human _protego_. "It was me, I — I tripped, and fell into Reg, and he fell into that — that hand thing. It wasn't Reg."

"Insolent whelp," Orion hissed, and grabbed the back of Sirius's shirt to haul him out of the shop. "Regulus, to me."

Regulus complied, head bowed, still afraid to look in his father or brother's eyes and see the disappointment that would surely be there.


	11. Rose

"She's like a rose. Beautiful, but deadly," Evan said, reverence in his voice.

Regulus thought Bellatrix was more like a venomous tentacula - thorny, poisonous, impossible to escape from - but didn't dare voice that opinion out loud in case she was listening in on them outside the door. He wouldn't put it past her. He wouldn't put _anything _past her these days. Hadn't Sirius warned him this would happen?

He'd been a fool, but Regulus had just wanted some _peace_ for once in his wretched life.

"Mm," he said noncommittally and pretended to be too focused on polishing his wand to offer up a better response. Bellatrix had impressed upon them the importance of a well-polished wand in their first 'lesson' and apparently it hadn't been a euphemism. Something about blood affecting the magic; Regulus had been so disgusted he'd blocked it from his mind.

"What do you think she'll be teaching us today?" Evan continued, slashing his wand through the air like a bloody idiot. Regulus wished he'd accidentally slash his foot off. "I hope it's some decent hexes. Ones we can use on those annoying little 'Puffs."

"Easy pickings," Regulus replied in a bored voice, inwardly horrified about how nonchalant his supposed friend was these days about picking fights with random students who had done nothing but have the misfortune to stand in his way. "There's no honour in fighting those so beneath you."

"I don't care about _honour_," scoffed Evan. "I just want to fuck up some mudbloods."


	12. Stain

Regulus sat on the top stair, looking down at the battered and bloody mask in his hands.

There was a time — so long ago now, it seemed, though it was mere months in reality — when he had thought this mask could be his salvation. By wearing it and accepting what it meant he could help his father, placate his mother, and keep his girlfriend from harm. He might not have agreed with the Dark Lord's methods, but he thought he could watch from the sidelines and participate as little as possible.

He'd been wrong.

They were always pushing him for more, _more_. Mother wanted him to move higher up the Dark Lord's ranks, complete every mission with glory and become one of his most trusted men. Bellatrix wanted him to master ever-more sadistic curses. Evan and Barty wanted him to join them in tormenting the first- and second-years. Father… grew ever more distant and barely left his study. Clementine was the only one who accepted him for who he was, had _ever _accepted him for who he was, but she didn't know. She didn't know the things he had witnessed and the things he had done.

He rubbed his thumb over the dark splatter, not knowing if the blood had belonged to him or Evan or Bash. Not caring.

He couldn't do this any more.


	13. Bitter

_Acerba sunt bella fratrum. _Bitter are the wars between brothers.

Regulus sees Sirius, laughing under the large beech tree beside the Lake with his friends. Regulus liked to sit under that tree, once. Before Sirius took that away too.

It's like they don't realise there's a war raging outside the boundaries of the castle. It's like they don't realise there's a war brewing _inside_. For all their careless so-called pranks and hexing of his friends — hexes that would be classed as _very serious _and _bordering on dark magic _if any Slytherins were caught using them, but no, because it's Perfect Potter and his merry band of Gryffindors they get away with a mild detention or a slap on the wrist — for all their prodding and goading and hurled insults they don't know. They don't understand. This isn't a game.

The war between these brothers has grown, mutated, spun out of control. It's no longer a matter of differing opinions (and their opinions on what really _mattered _hadn't been so different at all) or of differing values (again, not so different; Sirius had merely had the strength to value the family he _chose _over the one he was born into). Now, the war is _The War_.

Regulus knows how this will end. He has seen Sirius and Potter lurking around the headmaster's office, whispering excitedly with that same gleam in their eyes that Evan still held whenever they were given a task or called for training. He knows about Dumbledore's resistance, knows that he, like the Dark Lord, has no qualms about sending teenagers into battle. About spilling magical blood for the cause that he believes is right.

Regulus knows that he will end up facing Sirius on the battlefield and that his brother — quicker, braver, less cautious than he — will undoubtably better him. Sirius had won any time they'd duelled in the past.

He just hopes that his mask will stay put, so that Sirius might not have to bear the shame of knowing what his little brother has become.


	14. Steam

"Yer heavy steamin', pal," laughed Angus.

"I most certainly am _not_," Regulus retorted, though the fact that he was swaying and trying not to trip over his own feet in an attempt to reach the table rather belied that statement.

"Aye, ya are. Yer blootered, Reg. Regu-legless. Completely oot yer tits."

"Angus, we have trouble enough understanding you when you're sober," Evan said as he helped Regulus into a seat. The latter rather unhelpfully swiped his arm across the tabletop as he sat down, sending empty bottles and glasses onto Barty who somehow remained lying comatose in a heap on the floor.

"Yer in Scotland ya fuckin' fanny baws! If ah cannae speak ma ain tongue… get tae fuck ya specky minge," Angus grumbled, and wandered off to the other side of the common room.

"What in Salazar's name is he talking about?" Evan sighed, his hands firmly on Regulus's shoulders to prevent him from standing up again.

"Get off me," Regulus insisted, "I need to go and talk to Clementine."

"Not in this state you don't."

"I do! I need to tell her — I need to tell her… what do I need to tell her, Evan?"

"Nothing, Reg. It can wait until morning."

"No, I don't think it can. I think it's something very important!"

"It's definitely not," Evan said through gritted teeth as he struggled with his friend, who was surprisingly strong after drinking almost an entire bottle of firewhisky.

"It is, I — oh! I need to tell her that she's beautiful. So very beautiful. Do you think she knows? I don't think she knows how beautiful she is. Like Aphrodite. I should tell her, Evan!"

"Fuck's sake Reg, stop squirming like the Giant Squid. Oi, Finn!" he yelled to the tall blonde boy lounging by the fireplace. "Get over here and help me carry this lump of lard to bed!"

"No!" Regulus groaned. "No, I need to talk to Clementine."

"No you don't," Thorfinn grunted, lifting Regulus up and out of his seat by his armpits. Evan took his feet, and together they carried him down the stone spiral staircase and into their dormitory. Evan took Regulus's wand, and with a muttered _stupefy _knocked him out cold.

"Thanks," he said, clapping the taller boy on the shoulder. "Hopefully he'll sleep that off and not remember a thing come morning. Now let's go graffiti something obscene on little Barty's face."


	15. Horizon

As he hoisted himself up onto the sloping rooftop he found his brother already huddled up there, knees tucked up under his chin. It was cold, and Sirius was smoking, but Regulus found that it didn't bother him all that much in the wake of what had happened.

He settled down next to his older brother and gazed out across the London skyline, searching for the horizon that was barely visible between the higgledy-piggledy buildings and dusty smog.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

There was a pause that seemed to contain the weight of a thousand undisclosed emotions.

"No."


	16. Celebration

The Blacks didn't believe in birthdays. They'd always thought a celebration of something as insignificant as a _child _was, well, unnecessary.

So it was with surprise that Regulus awoke on the morning of his seventh birthday to find a small chocolate fairy cake sitting on his pillow with a candle flickering merrily on top. There was a folded piece of parchment, too, and Regulus poked his finger at the sticky icing before reading.

_Reg,_

_Happy birthday! Don't forget to make a wish!_

_Love from Sirius and Kreacher_

He grinned, closed his eyes, and blew out the candle. Happy birthday indeed.


	17. Silence

Orion Black's preferred method of punishment was silence. Where Walburga would shout and shriek and break things and possibly even break her sons if they didn't move quickly enough (Sirius sometimes didn't — he would get too caught up in shouting back at her), Orion would summon them to his study.

He would sit, and he would wait.

Sirius would glare at Orion defiantly, chin raised and eyes blazing. Regulus would look down at his feet, not daring to meet his father's eyes, and wish he could sink into the plush green carpet and never have to face the silence again.


	18. Mirror

"I don't know why you can't just ride a broomstick."

"Because _gran _has a broomstick! Listen —"

His rant was interrupted by a disembodied voice shouting _OI, PADS! _and Sirius pulled a jagged mirror from his back pocket. Regulus was horrified to see that specky _troll_, not his brother's reflection, gormlessly staring back.

"Prongs! Mate, listen, I reckon I've got it, it says here in your dad's mag…"

Regulus rolled his eyes as his brother and the tinny mirror voice fell into a lively, excited discussion. He slipped out of the room, pushed to the sidelines by James Potter yet again.


	19. Fantasy

"Did y'know that muggles have like, books about magic?"

Regulus shifted uncomfortably, glancing over his shoulder as if their mother would materialise to berate them at the mere mention of the word _muggle_.

"They're just fantasy, obviously, they get loads of stuff wrong. Don't you think it's weird that _we_ don't write stuff about _muggles_?"

"Martin Miggs," Regulus said quietly.

"Who?"

"_The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle_. Comic book. Evan had one. It was… weird."

He'd hidden it beneath a floorboard under his bed, like contraband.

"And?" Sirius leaned forward, eager.

"Nothing much," Regulus shrugged. "He ate baguettes."


	20. Thunder

Regulus was awake, reading by pale wand-light. There was a brutal storm raging outside, the rumbling thunder echoed through the dungeon walls and the waters of the Lake churned against the window.

He'd always hated thunderstorms. At home, he used to sneak into his brother's room and curl up beside him while they waited for it to pass. Not here. Not any more.

Beyond the dungeon three boys huddled together beneath an invisibility cloak as they slipped outside the castle, the thunder obscuring the sound of their footsteps. Though drenched they crackled with anticipation: tonight, they would complete their transformations.


	21. Ghost

"And see this?" said Sirius, pointing into the cabinet. "This lock of hair belonged to our sister."

"We don't have a sister," Regulus frowned.

"We used to. She _died_. You're probably too young to remember."

"You're lying."

"I'm not. She lived in your bedroom. She fell out of the window and went _splat _on the ground. Her brains squirted out everywhere, Kreacher had to clean it up."

"He didn't!"

"He did. And you know that clanking noise at night?"

"The pipes —"

"No. Her ghost. She's coming for you, Reg, she'll haunt you forever because you took her bedroom."

"She won't!"


	22. Quarter

Their family was divided into quarters, but the quarters weren't equal.

Regulus, the youngest, had the least responsibility and the least authority. Sirius had a little more, but not enough to be significant.

Their father, head of the household, should have had the most authority. His mouth should have been the mouth to lay down the law, and his hand the hand to deal the punishments.

But their mother, with her unpredictability and her erratic tempers, held all power. And sometimes it felt like her quarter was more like the whole, squeezing the rest of them out into the cold.


	23. History

"Look at the tapestry. See how we trace the purity of our line through centuries of history: generations of noble purebloods, each one brimming with the ambition, resilience and intelligence that defines the Blacks. _Toujours Pur_. Their blood runs through your veins, Regulus. You will carry your blood and your name with the dignity it commands.

"You will not consort with worthless mudbloods and blood-traitors. They are filth, excrement, _scum_. They will not tempt you from the path of your great destiny, Regulus. You will bring honour to this glorious family and take your place among the stars."

"Yes, mother."


	24. Zero

Regulus sat dutifully at his desk and marked out a full line of zeros on his sheet of parchment, followed by ones, twos, threes, right down to the end of the sheet, and tried to ignore his brother's restless fidgeting.

Their tutor deemed his work acceptable. Sirius, however, received a rap to the knuckles for each of the numerous blots that marred his page and bristled. Regulus felt an argument brewing.

_Just say sorry and do it nicely _he thought, imploring Sirius with his eyes and wishing that they were telepathic. _Just write nicely so we can go and play._


	25. Sanction

The children in the park across the street were shrieking with laughter as they played together, running through the grass. Regulus watched them from the big bay window, with one ear listening out for his mother's light footsteps on the stairs. He wasn't supposed to watch them, and he _certainly _wasn't supposed to wish that he could join them on the swings and the slide and the fast roundabout. The punishment for actually sneaking out and playing didn't bear thinking about — he hadn't seen his brother for over a week after he'd been caught.

And yet, Regulus kept watching them.


	26. Courage

Walburga advanced down the stairs, wand raised.

Regulus looked to Sirius, already bloodied and shaking.

_Have courage, Cor Leonis_, his great-aunt's voice echoed in his head.

"STOP!" he yelled and leapt between his brother and his mother.

"Reg… don't…" Sirius croaked.

With a flick of her wand Walburga swept Regulus aside and hurled him against the wall.

And he cried, because she had never physically harmed him before. He cried because his brother was yelling and convulsing in a heap on the floor. He cried because he didn't have the heart of a lion after all. He was a coward.


	27. Hope

If he ever became a potioneer, Regulus thought he might like to invent Felix Felicis, but for hope.

It would be golden in colour, not the showy splashy gold of Felix Felicis, but a soft pinkish gold. The colour of the early mornings when he would climb up onto the rooftop to join Sirius for the sunrise, and watch the purple bruises under his brother's eyes disappear in the morning glow.

_Rosy-fingered Dawn._

It would smell like wildflowers covered in dew and taste like jam tarts. Its gentle warmth would spread through the body, bestowing strength and courage.

Liquid Hope.


	28. November

Regulus waited in the common room, alone, and watched the slim second hand slowly tick its way around the clock until it finally joined the minute and the hour hands at XII. Midnight. November 3rd, 1976. Sirius had just turned seventeen.

In another world, another life, they might have celebrated together. He might have congratulated Sirius on receiving their father's pocket watch and perhaps accompanied him to Gringott's to watch as the goblins transferred his inheritance to his vault. They might have celebrated with an ice cream or a butterbeer or perhaps even a firewhisky or two.

As it was, Regulus had been forced into sneaking around.

He'd asked the elves to bake Sirius a cake — carrot, with a thick layer of icing — and deliver it to the Gryffindor common room along with seventeen red and gold candles and a host of balloons filled with glittering stars.

He'd cornered his brother's friend, Remus Lupin, after a Prefects' meeting and given him a small parcel wrapped in nondescript brown paper and told him to give it to his brother privately and to absolutely _not _reveal whom it was from in front of James Potter, under pain of death.

Oh, how he'd agonised over that gift. He didn't know if Sirius still supported the Tutshill Tornadoes or if Liquorice Wands were still his favourite sweets or if he still liked to read adventure stories. He didn't know what the words meant on those t-shirts he wore at weekends or why he always carried that tattered piece of parchment around with him.

It was difficult to know your brother when he wouldn't even look at you any more.

And in nineteen months' time Regulus would be the one to inherit the pocket watch, passed down from father to son for generations. He would inherit the galleons and the sickles and even the knuts. Once the spare — and how he missed the relative freedom that offered, now it had been taken away — the younger brother had become the heir with all the responsibility and the pressure, the relentless fucking _pressure_, that entailed.

Regulus wanted to hate his brother for abandoning him to the suffocating house and their mad mother and silent father. He wanted to scream and shout and hex him right off the top of Gryffindor Tower but he wouldn't. He couldn't. Sirius was still his brother, no matter what their mother demanded.


	29. Crowd

There were crowds of people all around them, shouting and laughing and jostling him and Regulus didn't like it, not one bit. Sirius didn't seem to mind. He kept hopping from foot to foot and looking over his shoulder at the enormous scarlet train like he was about to make a run for it.

But he couldn't bolt, because mother was gripping his shoulders and commanding him to remember his name and act accordingly.

Regulus wanted to hug his brother but he couldn't, not in front of mother.

_I love you, and I'll miss you. Please don't forget about me._


	30. Water

Dawn had broken but the common room was still empty, still cold without the flickering fire and cast in an eerie green glow. Regulus sat hugging his knees in a window seat and gazed out into the murky waters of the Great Lake.

A mermaid floated towards him with the underwater current, all grey skin and wild green hair. He pressed his hand against the glass and leaned forwards to get a better look. But she hissed at him and bared her jagged teeth; her long silver tail thwacked against the window as she left, and he recoiled in shock.


	31. Graduate

"And what would you like to do after you graduate, Regulus?"

He blinked. "Professor?"

"As a career, my boy!"

Regulus didn't like the way Professor Slughorn was chuckling. He was a _Black_. Didn't Slughorn know that the Blacks don't participate in something as menial and mundane as the _job market_? And even if they did, didn't he know there was a bloody war on? He very much doubted that his Head of House had a pamphlet on _Death Eater Indoctrination _hidden away in that stack of parchment.

"…Perhaps something in the Ministry?" Regulus suggested.

"A fine start!" Slughorn said jovially.


	32. Dust

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…"

Regulus's robes were stiff and uncomfortable and his neck wouldn't stop itching. He lifted a hand to scratch it but mother shot him a glare and he dropped it back to his side immediately. Beside him, Sirius huffed and tried to blow a strand of hair out of his face. Mother glared again and Sirius stuck his tongue out. Regulus frowned; that meant yelling when they got home.

_If _they ever got back home. Cissy wouldn't stop crying and Regulus didn't know why because she'd never even liked Great-Aunt Lycoris in the first place.


	33. Old

Regulus looked up into the wrinkled face of his grandfather and wondered what it might feel like to be that old.

Regulus had barely been a year old when his great-great-aunt Belvina had died and he couldn't remember her much but he supposed she must have looked like she'd been made out of dust and mouldering twigs because she'd been born in _1886 _and as far as he was concerned, that was ancient history.

Imagine living through so many years, seeing so many things, and still being fixated on the apparently abysmal state of your house-elf's cooking. What a waste.


	34. Discover

It is a terrible thing to discover you are wrong.

That your beliefs and those of your father and grandfather and great-grandfather and _their _great-grandfathers are so very wrong.

Because actually, muggle music is far superior to the wizarding drivel Finn listens too. Muggles have interesting literature and art. The theatre had been something of a revelation and now he couldn't get enough.

Regulus sighed and closed his eyes, an arm draped over his face as if it might stop these traitorous thoughts from spilling out of his head.

And yes, he sighed, mudbloods are actually quite good at magic.


	35. Home

"Where do you think I will live, after Hogwarts?"

"Huh?"

Regulus assumed his brother wasn't really listening to him, surrounded as he was by piles of odd little metal objects and coloured wires and what had apparently once been a _muggle _wireless.

"I suppose I could go and stay with Aunt Cass and the horses."

"You'll live _here_, numpty."

"But this will be your home. You're the heir, Sirius. You'll be head of the family."

"Nah. That's not me. You take it."

Regulus frowned. That's not how succession worked. The Blacks didn't just _abdicate_, all… _willy-nilly_. Sirius was a moron.


	36. Edge

It wasn't that Regulus was scared of heights, because he wasn't. He wasn't frightened of flying on a broomstick or one of Aunt Cass's Granians.

But he wasn't on a broomstick or a flying horse. He was teetering on the edge of the roof and this wasn't safe or normal and Sirius was going to bloody well get them _killed_.

The brothers usually played Up-Quidditch, Sirius's bastardisation of the normal game which involved flying very high and hurtling downwards to catch a Quaffle before it (or you) hit the ground — the back garden of 12 Grimmauld Place was too short and narrow to play a Seeker's Game or anything else that resembled ordinary Quidditch.

And today, Sirius had deemed Up-Quidditch _deathly dull_. Today, Sirius had thought it would be a grand idea to climb up onto the roof, drop a broomstick off the edge, _leap off_, and land on the broom before your brains splattered over the begonias.

Regulus was _not _in favour of this game.

"I'll tell your girlfriend you're a coward!"

"I don't have a girlfriend! And even if I did, she wouldn't be so _stupid _as to think I was a _coward _for not wanting to _die_."


	37. Heart

If Orion Black had a heart, he kept it well hidden.

People might say the same about Walburga too but it wasn't true. Walburga's heart had finally broken when her eldest son (she would assert that she had only ever had _one _son, now) had fled their home, bruised and bloodied. The hexes had been cast from her wand, but she had loved him in her own terrible twisted way.

Not Orion, though. Orion had sat calmly in his study as if the screams and shouts of his son echoing from downstairs were merely trees rustling in the breeze outside.


	38. Theory

When Regulus was twelve, his Uncle Alphard returned from a trip to Mykonos with books and moving models. Sirius took the models (he had great plans for the fire-breathing Chimaera), so the Homeric epics fell to Regulus.

Alphard pulled him aside and informed him that they were technically _muggle_ books. Regulus pulled a face but his uncle's theory was that since nobody knew who Homer actually was it would be quite alright to tell Mother that he'd been a wizard, if she happened to ask.

And the books were about magic, heroes, and fantastical things, so it wasn't really _lying_.


	39. Absolution

This could be his absolution.

This one terrifying, nauseating, panic-inducing act could absolve him of the crimes he had committed in his Lord's name. The secrets and the blood and the curses; all of it.

Perhaps the pieces of his tattered soul could be woven back together if he could succeed in rendering the Dark Lord mortal once more.

That tiny wisp of hope steeled him to lower his conjured goblet into the stone bowl and take his first sip of the dreadful potion that had almost killed his house-elf, knowing it would be the cause of his own death.


	40. Apathy

It is distressing, to look into your father's eyes and see nothing but blank apathy staring straight through you.

It is distressing to know that no matter how perfect your attendance and disciplinary record, how many snitches you catch and how many times you top your class, that the greatest sign of emotion your father will grant you will be a blink or the merest incline of the head.

Had he always been this way?

There was perhaps a time, if Regulus reached back into his most distant memories, that his father had shown some interest. He remembered the first time he had been allowed to accompany his father to Gringott's; he had been taken down to the family vault (praise Salazar he had managed to prevent himself from vomiting in that mine cart) and shown the great Black fortune and all the treasures that laid within. Sirius would have first choice of course, as heir, but Regulus had been told that some of those treasures would be his one day.

Father had graciously allowed him use of the family library (though not his study, _never _his study) and had once asked after the runes he was translating. Sometimes he had permitted Regulus to help solve the daily crossword puzzle in the _Prophet_.

Father had taken him to Diagon Alley to purchase his Hogwarts supplies the summer before first year. He'd selected a handsome eagle owl (Regulus had wanted the friendly barn owl, but Father had dismissed it as too common), the very best potions ingredients and tools, fine leather-bound books, and, of course, perfectly-tailored black robes.

It was perhaps after Regulus had been sorted into Slytherin and thus rescued the family from the shame of the previous year that his father grew more distant. Perhaps he considered his task now complete: his younger son had fulfilled his duty and chosen the correct path.

But Regulus wasn't sure that he _was _on the correct path. He would like to be able to ask his father's advice about the murmurs and whispers in the corners of the Slytherin common room. He would like to know what his father thought about cousin Bella's new-found zeal - and who was this so-called _Lord _anyway? Why had they never met him before? Surely if anyone should have a title it would be they, the Most Noble and Ancient? Why did his father not _do _something?


	41. Rusty

"Kreacher," Regulus asked, eyeing a large iron hook on the wall. "What's that for?"

"For storing pots and pans, Master Regulus."

"But Sirius said house-elves and children get hung from it when they're naughty and that's why it's got dried blood on it."

"It is not blood, it is rust. An old hook. Kreacher shall clean it, Master Regulus is correct, it is a disgrace to this kitchen," the old house-elf muttered.

"But Sirius…"

"Master Sirius is telling lies again. Master Sirius is a bad boy. Kreacher shall tell Mistress and—"

"No, Kreacher! It doesn't matter, don't tell Mother! Please!"


	42. Style

"Are you really going out like that?" Regulus asked, eyeing his brother with distaste. Ripped jeans, lurid patterned shirt, those hideous boots: such an eyesore.

"Merlin, Reg, you sound like Gran," Sirius grumbled.

"And what is _that_?"

"Leather jacket."

"What kind of leather? It doesn't look like dragon skin."

"Cow, I guess?"

"You're wearing _cowhide? _Like some sort of… _muggle peasant?_"

"It's called style, Reg. Look it up. There'll be a big picture of me looking cool as fuck."

And Regulus watched, aghast, as his brother flipped his sunglasses down onto his eyes and hopped out of his bedroom window.


	43. Sunshine

Regulus blinked and squinted as he stepped out into the grounds, the bright sunshine painful to the eyes of one who had spent the last few weeks almost entirely ensconced within the gloomy walls of the dungeons and the dimly-lit library.

But exams were over for another year and Pomfrey had insisted that he get some fresh air and Vitamin D before he turned into a vampire. He knew that wasn't how vampires were made (he was expecting an O in Defence, after all) and he suspected that a potion would help with the vitamins, but he could admit that the warm sunshine dancing across his near-translucent skin was a pleasant feeling.

Almost as pleasant a feeling as watching that idiotic curly-haired Hufflepuff trip and fall into the lake. Regulus supposed he'd been trying to impress the group of girls that were now laughing and half-heartedly attempting to pull him back to shore. With any luck, the Squid would drag him under for good and then he wouldn't be able to flirt with Regulus's witch anymore. She was too smart for that annoying little twerp, anyway. _And _it'd serve him right for beating Regulus to the snitch last January. Idiot.


	44. Hide

For four long days his forearm had burned almost unbearably hot. The Mark had been a deep angry red, the colour of iron-rich blood, its lines shifting and reforming whenever he looked at it.

It had settled now. But he didn't want it.

It was _wrong_. It wasn't a Mark of brotherhood, as Lucius had said. It didn't show loyalty or alliance or dedication or _any _of it. It was a brand. A stain. And he wanted it gone.

He tried a disillusionment charm but all that did was make his skin glimmer and then the Mark had faded back into view. He could almost see the snake, curling out of the skull (_honestly_, you'd think the Dark Lord could be a little less blatant with his iconography), laughing at him.

He even tried — feeling like a total prat as he did it and blushing furiously — applying a pot of his mother's makeup but that did an even worse job than the disillusionment charm. He might have guessed since it had never seemed to make his mother look anything more than half-human at the best of times.

With every spell he tried Regulus felt more and more desperate for the damned thing to be gone. He had never wanted it, not really. He thought it was what his parents wanted, thought it would make them happy again, but now he realised that they might not have _ever_ been happy. Not in his lifetime, anyway.

Now, Regulus stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Tears streamed down his face, and blood down his left forearm. He had cast _Scourgify _so many times that the now-faded lines of his Dark Mark had run red again, the lines merging into one terrible bloody stream. The spell wasn't intended for use on human skin, he knew that, but he'd done it out of desperation and almost flayed his arm.

Perhaps flaying _would_ work, eventually. Or perhaps he would never be able to hide it.

He stood listening to the steady _drip drip drip _of his blood hitting the bathroom tiles and screamed in frustration. The mirror shattered from his outburst of accidental magic, sending shards of glass flying in all directions. Kreacher appeared instantly by his side.

"Master Regulus?" the house-elf asked tentatively.

"_GET OUT!_"

Kreacher's bat-like ears flattened and he cowered in the corner but he didn't leave. _Wouldn't _leave his beloved Master.


	45. Final

He felt oddly calm as he buffed the polish into his shoes. Perhaps it was unnecessary to shine one's shoes before walking to one's death but Regulus wasn't about to set aside a lifetime of meticulous dressing at the final moment.

He tied his laces, smoothed down his freshly-pressed trousers, and attached his favourite cufflinks to his shirt: silver lions, his last gift from Sirius. He read the letter once more:

_I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. _

Too dramatic? But if he couldn't be dramatic in death, he supposed, when _could _he be?


	46. Dawn

Sometimes he envied the Ravenclaws and (begrudgingly) the Gryffindors in their high towers. They would be able to watch sunrise after sunrise from the comfort of their common rooms, or perhaps even from their dormitories… Sirius had never mentioned it, but Regulus was sure it was possible.

Not so for the Hufflepuffs in their basement (he understood that their circular windows were charmed to always spread bright warm sunlight) and certainly not in the Slytherin dungeons. Not even the brightest, most colourful sunrise would be able to penetrate the murky depths of the Great Lake and reach his water-logged windows.

But Dawn's golden chariot would never escape him again, for Regulus had discovered the secret staircase to the Astronomy Tower which bypassed the need for a key. And he could climb it whenever he wished to sit among the battlements and wait for the sun to rise.

Nestled between the stone balustrades he had an almost uninterrupted view of the Lake, the Forest, and the snow-topped mountains of the Scottish Highlands. Here he could watch the sky change from black to purple, pink and gold and back to blue in tranquil silence with only Dawn to witness his feverish tears.


	47. Happy

Regulus wondered whether anyone had ever truly been happy at 12 Grimmauld Place.

It was a house of darkness: dark walls, ebony floors, silver serpents with jet eyes blinking from every surface. Flickering lamplight and thick paned glass covered with heavy velvet curtains. A tall house with a single wrinkled house-elf who made valiant attempts to keep the dust at bay but whom Regulus had to assist with a muttered _Scourgify _every other day.

Dark books covered in the hides of animals Regulus would rather not know about, bearing details of potions and spells that he would also rather not know about lined the family library. Dark portraits of surly and cruel ancestors hung from every wall. Dark artefacts filled the cabinets and shelves and tables of each room — artefacts that should be locked away in a vault and certainly not left on display for curious siblings to hurt themselves (or _you_) with.

It wasn't the kind of place happy parents would choose to raise happy children.

But then, he supposed, Walburga and Orion had never been happy parents. And he and Sirius had certainly not been happy children.

Perhaps this is just how his life was _meant _to be.


	48. Space

Regulus felt desperately indignant that no one had thought to warn him that Hogwarts Castle, despite its vastness, would be so full of other people.

He hadn't realised how much he had come to value his privacy and a space he could call his own until he had come to Hogwarts. He had only been here a week, and already he was feeling overwhelmed at the sheer amount of _bodies _he had to encounter every single day.

From the moment he had arrived at King's Cross he had felt hemmed in at all sides. Children were shouting and rushing about all over the place as if they'd never heard of such a thing as manners. Sirius had abandoned him almost immediately in favour of his new _friends _and Regulus had crept ever closer to his mother's side until she had chided him and told him to board the train with his head held high like a Proper Black.

But the narrow corridors had been filled with boisterous boys _and _girls pushing and shoving and knocking him as they rushed past, shrieking with laughter as they were reunited with friends or leaning out of the windows to gawp and wave at their parents.

He'd found his cousins' compartment but this, too, felt claustrophobic as he sat opposite Cissa's boyfriend, knees almost touching, wedged between Evan and the compartment wall.

Things didn't improve when the Hogwarts Express had reached its destination and Regulus found himself crammed into an impossibly small boat with Evan and two other boys. The first years had lined up in front of hundreds of other students to be Sorted and _then_ he had to sit at the long Slytherin table and endure the loud chatter around him. Elbows and knees knocked into him as he tried to eat as sedately and politely as he had been brought up to do, but the Great Hall was a billion miles away from the sombre dining room at Grimmauld Place.

And, to top it all off, he had to suffer the indignity of sharing a bedroom and a bathroom with _four _other boys. Even with curtains around his bed and the privacy charms he had quickly learned from a rather helpful book in the library, he still felt exposed and _surrounded_. He longed for peace and quiet and solitude. How was he expected to _think _and _study _with all this noise?


	49. Nostalgia

Regulus skipped breakfast and made his way to the Quidditch pitch before his teammates could arrive and sully the significance of this moment with their mindless chatter and jostling.

This would be the thirtieth game of his Hogwarts career. His last.

He probably should have given up his position at the end of sixth year, as Murton and Fawley had. But Higgs, their Captain since fifth year, had persuaded him to stay on and truthfully Regulus wasn't sure if he would have been able to make it through this most dreadful of years without the freedom and _escape_ of flying.

As he entered the locker room Regulus inhaled, closed his eyes and let the waves of nostalgia wash over him.

He had been a small thing back then, slight and fast. He was still fast, but well over a foot taller and still growing (he hoped). And he had practiced drill after drill until he could corkscrew and roll and feint and dive better than any other Seeker in the school.

But the locker room still smelled the same: a fairly unpleasant mixture of old boots, sweat-soaked jerseys and broom polish. It was comforting, in a way. Regulus always knew what to expect when he was here, and what was expected of _him_. He had one job — catch the Snitch before the other team's Seeker — and he knew that he could do it well. He had an excellent catch record, and today would be no different.

He crossed to his locker, retrieved his servicing kit, and sat on one of the long benches with his broomstick over his knee as he made sure it was in perfect condition and ready for play. There were a few untidy twigs at the tail that he clipped off, a splinter in the handle that he sanded away. He polished the rich oak wood until it gleamed so brightly he could almost see his face in it and set it aside, carefully, while he changed.

Trousers, jersey, robe, shinpads, gauntlets, gloves, boots: he loved every part of his well-worn uniform, the pride he took from donning the Slytherin green-and-silver and displaying his name proudly on his back. The delight he felt as he soared high into the air and watched the match unfold beneath him. The _exhilaration _of the crowd's deafening cheers as his fingers closed around the tiny Snitch.

He'd miss it terribly.


	50. Magic

Regulus ran up the staircase taking the steps two at a time and burst into his room. The door slammed shut of its own accord and he leaned against it, sweaty palms pressed against the woodgrain as he attempted to control his breathing and calm the magic that was coursing through his veins.

Mother and Sirius had started another argument after dinner. He could tell it was going to be a bad one. Knew that it would end in tears and curses and blood again.

Last time he had summoned his courage and intervened but his mother's anger, directed at _him _for the first time, had caused his accidental magic to flare up and he had set fire to the curtains. Mother had been furious, had called him an _aberration _for being unable to control himself at thirteen (the irony in that had not gone unnoticed) and Regulus had fled before he could do any more damage.

This time, he had fled before he had the chance to do any damage at all.

He slid to the floor and hugged his knees as the lights flickered and books and ornaments began to drop from their shelves.

_Breathe, Regulus. Just breathe._


	51. Storm

The low rumble of dark clouds rolling over each other in torment. A spark in the air, not of magic but something _more_. The first spatter of rain against the window: warm rain, he knew, because this was a summer storm after all.

The first storm Sirius wasn't here for because Sirius had snuck out — somewhere _muggle _no doubt — and left Regulus all alone.

The world grew dark. Regulus darted under his bed as the rumble of thunder grew into a roar as loud as if those two Olympian brothers, Poseidon the Earth-Shaker and Zeus the Thunder God, were warring on the rooftops.

Regulus took in a shuddering breath, hands clutching at his heart as if that might stop its frenzied beating.

The rain lashed against the leaded window. The first _CRACK _of lightning illuminated his bedroom and found Regulus curling himself into a ball and squeezing his eyes shut and wishing it were over.

When the stink of smoke filled his nostrils he thought the worst had happened. But there was a warm hand on his shoulder, and a familiar voice murmuring his name.

"You came back," Regulus whispered, disbelieving.

"Yeah, 'course I did. There's a storm," shrugged Sirius.


	52. Machine

"Reg! Look at this!"

Regulus glared at his brother as he launched himself over the _back _of the (immaculate, antique) couch and squeezed himself into the tiny gap between Regulus and its arm. Sirius was, as ever, completely oblivious to other people's need for personal space. Regulus huffed and moved further up the couch but Sirius followed and thrust a hideously shiny magazine over the top of the book he had been _trying_ to read.

"_Look!_" Sirius demanded, pointing at the page.

"What is it?" asked Regulus, glancing down. "Is this a _muggle _magazine?" he asked in horror, raising his hands in the air just in case Mother might be able to tell that he'd _touched _something muggle.

"Yeah, I nicked it. But look at _this_," he insisted, stabbing his forefinger repeatedly at the magazine. "Isn't it _amazing?_"

"What is it?" Regulus repeated. Sirius was wearing that manic grin that meant he was about to divulge something terrible or dangerous — or both.

"It's a muggle travelling machine thing. It's called a…" he frowned, twisting the magazine towards him. "…a _motorbike_. I'm going to get one."

Regulus raised an eyebrow at his brother's decisive tone. "How? _Why?_"

"We've got to do a project in Muggle Studies next year, y'know like taking apart a muggle thing and seeing how it works. I'm going to do a _motorbike_," Sirius grinned and leaned back, arms folded behind his head. Regulus felt a dread begin to curl in the pit of his stomach.

"You told Mother you weren't taking Muggle Studies to OWL level," he said evenly, staring at the unnervingly still photograph of this _motorbike _contraption.

"I tell Mother lots of things," Sirius shrugged. "I'll keep it by Hagrid's. Moony says his mum'll know somewhere I can get manuals and stuff, y'know to figure out how to put it back together? And Prongs reckons I should make it fly."

"Of course he does," Regulus muttered darkly. As if James bloody Potter could think of anything but _flying _for more than five seconds. He'd probably make Sirius ride it instead of a broomstick during their next Quidditch match.

He sighed and felt an enormous amount of discomfort at his brother's delighted, distracted expression. Sirius was _brilliant _— far more intelligent than he had any right to be considering the amount of effort he put into his studies, which was exactly _none _— yet all he seemed to be interested in was wasting his time tinkering with these mundane muggle machines. Didn't he realise that he could do _amazing _things, if he just set his mind to it?


	53. Welcome

Narcissa glanced over her shoulder at her soon-to-be husband who seemed perfectly at ease talking with her father and her uncles, glass of whisky in hand and silver-blonde hair gleaming in the candlelight.

"I _do _feel sorry for whichever poor girls you two decide to bring home," she said with a sigh as she turned back to her youngest cousins. "I can't imagine your parents giving anyone as warm a welcome as _mine _have given to darling Lucius."

"Perhaps we'll bring boys home to meet you all instead," Sirius said impishly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sirius!"

"What do you mean?" asked Regulus with a frown.

"Well, Reg, sometimes boys fancy other boys, and—"

"No, I didn't mean— I wasn't talking to _you_, Sirius," Regulus said quickly, a flush spreading over his pale cheeks.

"I just struggle to imagine any girl that Auntie would consider a suitable match for either of you," Narcissa said, bestowing an indulgent smile upon Regulus.

He felt a twist in his stomach and glanced sideways at his older brother for guidance. Sirius was pulling at his collar but Regulus suspected that was more because he hated wearing these stuffy formal robes than because he was uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was heading.

"Of course," Narcissa continued. "They will want to settle you first, Sirius, since you are the heir. Do you have your eye on anyone? I assume any _appropriate _girl will already be attending but I can always extend an invitation if I have overlooked anyone."

Regulus thought it rather unlikely that Narcissa could have overlooked _anything _when it came to this wedding. It felt like every witch in the family had been planning it for years.

"If I _was_ to bring a girl," Sirius said, leaning back and extending one arm across the back of the couch. "You definitely wouldn't find her appropriate."

"I see. You're in one of those tiresome moods again," she sighed, and shifted ever so slightly in her seat so that her back was angled towards Sirius. He didn't seem to care. "What about you, Reggie dear?"

"Er, me?" he asked, startled. Sirius snorted.

"Have any girls caught your fancy? The Nott girl in your year is rather pretty, isn't she?"

"Right. Erm. I suppose?"

He couldn't say that he'd noticed. He was only thirteen. Was he supposed to be finding girls pretty? Was _Aurelia Nott _supposed to be pretty?


	54. Future

Slughorn kept asking him what his plans were for after graduation. Said he could recommend him onto a Potions Mastery, as he had done for Severus, or an Apprenticeship in Runes or even something in History. He was on excellent terms with Bathilda Bagshot, after all. Perhaps Quidditch?

Regulus had almost laughed in his face. As if a Black could ever play professional Quidditch.

Father had actually deigned to write; the first time Regulus had ever received a letter from him. Asking — no, _demanding _— that Regulus put the maximum amount of effort into his NEWT studies because he would not accept anything less than perfect O grades.

Mother, on the other hand, was badgering him about witches. Told him he had to bring a nice, appropriate girl home for Yule or she would find someone for him.

Merlin, he'd rather stab his own eyes out than marry someone his _Mother _deemed appropriate.

How could he possibly make plans for his future when it was taking all his strength not to cry out from the pain of the burning in his left arm, the summons from the Master he had not chosen but had gone to willingly all the same? _How?_


	55. Fail

It was a cold, damp night and Grimmauld Place was covered in that heavy fog-like silence that often accompanied the Witching Hour. The muggles were all abed but they wouldn't have noticed the candlelit glow from the window of Number Twelve's parlour anyway, hidden from their view as it was.

Under the cover of darkness, the youngest Black apparated noisily into the narrow alleyway that ran alongside the house and promptly vomited all over his shoes.

His body was still convulsing and he slowly, awkwardly, manoeuvred himself into a sitting position so he might not do too much harm if he were to collapse. The concrete floor was wet beneath his robes and he realised he had probably sat in the puddle of vomit but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He had failed, and he had been punished, but he had been allowed to live. How gracious of their Lord.

Eventually his convulsions settled into twitches and the echoes of pain coursing through his nervous system became tolerable, and he forced himself up and into the house.

Mother was sat in the parlour with a large glass of neat gin, waiting.

"Did you enjoy your little meeting, Regulus?"

"Not particularly."

She looked up, surprised by his tone, and he shoved his hands into his pockets so she might not see them shaking.

"You look terrible," she said, narrowing her eyes in a scrutinising gaze. "What is that mess all over your robes? Why are you twitching? KREACHER!"

Regulus grimaced as her shriek sent fresh waves of pain crashing over his weakened mind and felt himself stumbling forwards, he closed his eyes and couldn't stop himself falling, and when he opened them he was staring at his bedroom ceiling.

To his surprise, his mother's face loomed into view.

He blinked, twice, but she wasn't an apparition.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "Why have you been subjected to the Cruciatus Curse?"

Regulus groaned and closed his eyes again. "It was a punishment."

"For what?"

"Failure. He… he had ordered me to torture a child, Mother. I couldn't. I _wouldn't._"

"Well. Perhaps you won't fail to please our Lord now you have experienced his punishments."

Regulus opened his eyes and stared at her in disbelief. "Did you hear what I said? Mother! A _child!_"

"I heard you perfectly, Regulus. Get some sleep, you're clearly over-tired."

And she left him.


	56. Pride

Sirius, with wide sparkling eyes and expressive hand gestures, had told him all about House Pride at Hogwarts: the badges enchanted by the older years, the chants and clap-clap-stomp routines, the face-paint and dyed hair and scarves, hats, jumpers, _everything _in House Colours.

But it wasn't until Regulus found himself in the Quidditch stands squeezed between an excitable Angus and shivering Evan that Regulus _really _experienced House Pride for himself.

It was a cold and drizzly November afternoon but the colours of all four Hogwarts Houses were valiantly forcing their way through the grey mist. The bright yellow of the Hufflepuffs and shimmering blue of the Ravenclaws were eye-catching enough, but it was the other two teams' day and it showed.

The Gryffindors were waving large banners with drawings of proud lions tossing their manes and roaring obscenities, all bedecked in red and gold and performing some sort of synchronised wave.

And the Slytherins, not to be outdone by their greatest rivals, held aloft pennants each bearing a large letter than shifted and changed to spell out the names of all their team's players, and snakes crafted from silver and green paper chains that slithered up and down their stands.


	57. Power

The Blacks' ancestral house functioned more as a theatre than a home. Here, his family (aside from those unmentionable exceptions) honed their skills and performed their parts and aimed to leave no visitor in doubt that the Blacks were the purest, oldest, _noblest _of all the ancient wizarding families.

Not noble in the Gryffindor sense of self-sacrificing fat-headedness, but in the sense of _power_ and _superiority_: Black patronage was a thing to be coveted.

At least, it ought to be.

Regulus knew, now, that it was just a façade.

The Blacks had no more power than any other family. Less, perhaps, then some. They made a good show of it with the dark green wallpaper, the ebony floorboards, the goblin-wrought silverware all decorated with carved and etched serpents, the fussy clothes and attentive house-elves and mysterious artefacts lurking on every surface.

But in reality Regulus suspected that most of the world considered them a bit… _passé_. Something to be tolerated for the sake of tradition, like an embarrassing spinster aunt. It was only the likes of the Crabbes and the Rosiers and the Bulstrodes, those cauldron-lickers, that fawned over the House of Black these days.

_Toujours Pur. _What a joke.


End file.
